


Kieren

by bellamymorelikebellend



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Kieren Walker - Freeform, description, in the flesh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamymorelikebellend/pseuds/bellamymorelikebellend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Descriptions of the characters. Written in third person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kieren

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy, it's not the best. I wanna try and write all of the main characters so I should update more.

Kieren Walker Pin prick pupils around clouded white, boring into wherever he stares. Momentarily hidden beneath thin translucent skin, with light eyelashes, brushing upon the cold skin resting on his cheekbones. Each textured line, barely visible on this new hollow stone face. Blue tinted dark circles surround his eyes, just reaching his cheekbones, his face resembling a skeleton. Lips this same shade of blue, cracked and chapped, un-coverable skin well tethered and rotten. Blond hair, brushed neatly back, framing his small yet long face structure, strands showing various shades of blond. Fringe hanging down lightly. The sponge begins to brush against the un-flushed skin clinging to his bones. Shaking hands, thin fingers, re-dipping the sponge in an unnatural shade of cover-up foundation. It clings to his dead face as he brushes it in long thin strokes. He looks in the mirror, eyes fearful of the brown contact lenses soon to cover up the blank irises that now reside over the old hazel colour that was before. Sleeves fallen, he drags them back up to his wrists, hiding the rotten scar on each arm, and the bad stitching that criss-crosses upon both of them, supposedly never to bleed again. Accidentally dipping the end of his ember knit-sweater on the sponge. Gripping each corner of the end of the sweater, he pulls it over his head, careful not to smudge the already placed foundation. The itchy wool brushes over his skin, leaving him no discomfort. Why would it? The sweater goes over the entrance wound of his injections, dragging over the large circle that was a little bit bigger than a bullet wound. He then pulls the sleeves down over his arms, over each scar, and chucks it lightly to the pile of clothes by the door. Walking stiffly over to the chest of draws he stretches, skin lightly rippling over this skeleton. His thick eyebrows draw into a frown, furrowing as he searches dexterously through his clothes. He pulls out an almost identical sweater, the only difference being the bottle green colour and diamond and cross pattern that was knitted with the thick, soft wool. Before putting the sweater on he pulls out a vest top. Routine. He wouldn't even need it, it’s not like he could feel the top or the sweater. He quickly pulls on both and returns to the mirror. Staring into his refection he notices the real difference that the cover up makes. Most of one side of his face is thickly painted with the protocol disguise expected of him, and other ‘PDS sufferers’ by the living. The almost orange peach foundation is so different to his new skin tone that it’s not even complimentary. He swiftly places the sponge on his face, repeating the strokes over and over until he looks vaguely living. He rummages through the box for his contacts. Firstly, though, he picks up the prescription eye drops given for the aching caused by the contacts. It was ironic that the only feeling he felt was because of his damn contacts. Why couldn't the injection repair the rest of his nervous system? The glistening drops fall on his eye, running around his bottom eyelid and then disappearing as he blinks. He reaches for the contacts, placing each one carefully in his eye. Finished. The matte foundation covers his once blue tinted lips and eyelids, all his face now the orange-peach that hid the pale deathly look. He now looks credulous and innocent. But he isn't. Funny story of his own actually. He rose from the dead and then after that he ripped people apart. Okay, maybe it’s not that funny. But, you can sit there and listen to it anyway, just like people have done for you. It’s weird at first because all there is is just darkness. It’s so dark. Doesn't make a difference if his eyes are open or closed. What he thought was that he’d been buried alive. Not ideal. Now that is proper, proper panic, you know? He hit out at the lid of the coffin, even though he knew there was no way. But then it starts to give. He has to push his way through all the soil. Takes ages, doesn't it. Takes so long. Then suddenly, something’s different – he feels the wind on the tips of his fingers. And the rain. ‘Cause before that he’s not really sure where he is, but, but now he knows, and he’s pushing through, and then all this stuff at once – the moon, and this incredible storm blowing. And the clock chiming midnight and He’s just standing there. Nobody else around and all of it pushing into him. But you know what he felt? That feeling... it’s like what being born must feel like. Except he’s got context. Because, honestly, dead, everything up until then was fear. Everything. Even when he was alive. Just different levels of fear. And then it's gone. And he’s like ‘Yeah, come on! Give it to me! Fill me up!’. But you know what? This hunger, this appetite, He could not wait to get started.


End file.
